Mom & her bright purple patch of brinjals
The only ones who can manage inflation better than economists are homemakers and my avantgarde mother is no exception.
“Prices of vegetables are soaring,” declared my father one evening as he kept the jhola (jute bag) of veggies on the kitchen shelf. The next few minutes were spent discussing the prices of exotic vegetables like zucchini to the humble tinda (Indian squash).
The biggest resentment was the skyrocketing price of brinjal, my father’s favourite vegetable. The next morning, my mother had a similar discussion with the maid, who found it difficult to make thicker gravy for the rajma (kidney beans) for her children due to the exorbitant price of tomatoes. She lamented for not being a farmer and growing her own vegetables. Eureka! My mom got an idea and the next few days were spent implementing it.
My mother with her trusted aides; our domestic help and our part-time maid, was all set to grow brinjals. Clearing the garden of the flower beds, pulling in some fertile soil, the trio planted seeds of the best hybrid variety of brinjal and waited desperately to see it germinate. My mother got tense when she did not find any shoots sprouting out. ‘Rescue the brinjal’ operation was launched. The first help came from grandmother, who suggested she add organic manure. An extortionate manure was bought.
Next help came from the neighboured aunty, who suggested that brinjals prosper when they are given gold water. My mother, without a second thought, took out all her gold jewellery like a despairing mother of Bollywood movies who is paying for her unwell child at the hospital. She put all her jewellery in a bucket and poured water to its brim. After 24 hours, the gold water was ready. The jewellery was thankfully separated and brinjals were given the water. After a few days, the barren garden was full of tender plants.
On doomsday, the dinner table was elaborately laid out with the best tablecloth that was until now kept for guests who had not arrived. My mother, attired like a five-star chef, served us the delicacies of the day: Brinjal soup, brinjal cutlets, brinjal khichdi, Burani raita, baingan bharta, masala bhaat (Maharashtrian masala brinjal), baingan chutney, boriya diya plang (a classic Bengali dish cooked in brinjal and tomato gravy), baingan bhaja (deep fried brinjal); in silver dinner set. Thankfully, Google could not help her find a brinjal sweet dish.
For the next few days, we had other brinjal recipes on our table, while my father calculated the money spent on my mother’s gardening adventure. Brinjals were all over our garden, growing like monsters. My mother gave brinjal recipes a rest only when she realised that we were turning a purple like her brinjals. The entire season was spent exchanging brinjals with friends, foes and relatives. I had enough reasons to conclude that children hated us simply because my family supplied them the despised vegetable. My parents were even named Brinjal uncle and aunty.
The brinjal cascade came to an end when my mother uprooted the tropical perennial plants at the end of the season. Someone has rightly said for a debacle like this that things end but memories last forever.
THE SEASON WAS SPENT EXCHANGING BRINJALS WITH FRIENDS, FOES AND RELATIVES